I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest read more

I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest works must have one common end,
And nothing crown the tablet of his name.

Unraveling the web of Penelope.
[Lat., Penelopae telam retexens.]

Unraveling the web of Penelope.
[Lat., Penelopae telam retexens.]

The best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,
The best house hasn't been planned,
The highest peak hasn't read more

The best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,
The best house hasn't been planned,
The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet,
The mightiest rivers aren't spanned;
Don't worry and fret, faint-hearted,
The chances have just begun
For the best jobs haven't been started,
The best work hasn't been done.

Handle your tools without mittens.

Handle your tools without mittens.

I think the person who takes a job in order to live - that is to say, for the money read more

I think the person who takes a job in order to live - that is to say, for the money - has turned himself into a slave.

A day's work is a day's work, neither more nor less, and the man
who does it needs a read more

A day's work is a day's work, neither more nor less, and the man
who does it needs a day's sustenance, a night's repose, and due
leisure, whether he be a painter or ploughman.

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.

The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire.
He shall fulfill God's utmost will, read more

The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire.
He shall fulfill God's utmost will, unknowing His desire,
And he shall see old planets pass and alien stars arise,
And give the gale his reckless sail in shadow of new skies.
Strong lust of gear shall drive him out and hunger arm his hand,
To wring his food from a desert nude, his foothold from the sand.

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out read more

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight,
Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To put on when you're weary--or a stool
To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool!
Or else at best, a cushion where you lean
And sleep, and dream of something we are not,
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas!
This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid
The worth of our work, perhaps.